


Comfortably numb

by Mraowface



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, But he'll have to make do with this instead, Casual Sex, Crowley Needs Therapy, Crowley Needs a Hug (Good Omens), Fucking The Pain Away, Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Oral Sex, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 08:28:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24846808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mraowface/pseuds/Mraowface
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale have been having drunken casual sex for years.  They Never.  Ever.  Deal with it...
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 87





	Comfortably numb

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning: self harm/dermatillomania

It had first happened after the church. Aziraphale had been effusive in his thanks to Crowley, clutching the rescued books and walking to the Bentley in a daze, eyes shining.

And when Aziraphale invited him into the bookshop for a drink, and one drink had turned into three, and then a few more after that... Crowley allowed himself to relax more and more. Aziraphale wanted to see him. Was _grateful_ to him. It felt like they had so much catching up to do.

The evening blurred towards the end. And then suddenly Crowley was waking up in the morning, face glued to the sofa with an incriminating dried-on flaky white substance.

_Fuck_. He couldn't have. There was no way even Crowley would have been that stupid.

His pounding head quickly reminded him that yes, he very much had. Last night he'd drunkenly slithered to his knees, and sucked off his best friend in the back room of his fucking bookshop.

_Shit_. He really had. There was no coming back from it. He'd only just got Aziraphale back, and now he'd never speak to him again.

Banishing the headache, Crowley tried to think of damage control. After twenty minutes of anxiety spiralling, he had nothing. All he could do was wait for Aziraphale to come downstairs, and beg to be forgiven.

By half past three though, after hours of waiting, it was clear that Aziraphale was not coming downstairs. Crowley slunk away shamefully, and went back to the flat via the off license.

So... alcohol. It had got him into this mess, and by this stage there seemed little to lose by drowning himself in it again. He drank steadily for three days. No sign of Aziraphale. Also no sign of the shame dissipating. Well. He'd just have to live with it. Add 'demon slut' to the inner catalogue of self-recrimination.

No wonder Aziraphale didn't want to see him. A literal fucking angel, and Crowley had defiled him. Crowley's skin itched. He clawed at it haphazardly. Seemed to help a bit.

Struck by a thought, he transformed into a giant (still drunken) snake. Started rubbing his skin against every abrasive surface he could find. It felt _good_. Well, actually it felt fucking painful. He'd begun bleeding in places, and his skin wasn't coming off in one nice long layer like it should be. But the pain felt _right_ , and between that and the alcohol, he was starting to drift into an almost-pleasant mental numbness. _That_ was alright.

When he'd rubbed his scales raw, and got rid of at least a whole layer of skin, Crowley coiled up and let the too-sensitive ache where his skin touched skin or floor fill his brain, and drown out anything else. He slept.

The next time was around fifteen years later. They'd never spoken of what had happened between them. Crowley had spent a few weeks in hiding, before eventually emerging and bumping into Aziraphale. The angel had acted like nothing had happened. It hurt, but it was probably for the best.

It had taken a while for them to fall back into their old drinking habits. But now here they were, in the bookshop again, once again getting absolutely trashed on fine wine. Everything was _fine_ , they were both relaxed, and the wine kept on flowing, and... And Crowley was on his knees again, one hand wrapped around Aziraphale's thick cock, and his mouth was teasing and sucking at the head... He tasted so _good_ , so _perfect_. Crowley had a minute of bliss, before the self-loathing kicked in. He had no fucking right. Aziraphale was a _literal angel_. The literal angel came in thick spurts down his throat, and Crowley squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to cry.

Then he was scrambling to his feet and out the door. Quick pause to blurt “I'm sorry...” It was dark outside. He should probably have sobered up and gone home. Instead he found himself wandering towards a bar he'd heard of.

As it turned out, picking up a man was fairly straightforward. So was being led into the nearest alleyway, and allowing himself to be pushed downwards onto his knees. Crowley felt that numb feeling again as the stranger fucked his mouth. This was good. This was what he wanted. To be hazily connected to existence, watching himself act but not feeling anything.

Afterwards he went home, had a three-hour scalding shower, and slept.

They never spoke about it. Crowley couldn't stay away, and he could never tell when the danger was coming. It happened again, more frequently.

He got used to slipping out quietly, eyes lowered, never seeing the heartbreak on Aziraphale's face. Going to a club or a bar, picking someone up. Avoiding the warnings and words of advice from the couple of older men who tried to look out for him.

Once he came home with bruises on his throat. That felt good. He had to miracle away the marks the next day, but he let the pain and tenderness remain. Aziraphale looked at him like he knew anyway, and Crowley stayed away from the bookshop for a month.

Some guys he let take him home and fuck him. He picked the ones he knew wouldn't treat him gently. The ones who'd push his face into the mattress and take what they needed from him. It wasn't like he was doing this to feel good about himself.

Another time, he went and stood in the back of a church, to feel the blisters forming on the soles of his feet. Why the fuck not?

He could sense Aziraphale growing more worried about him. He knew the angel would never come out and say it though. Some things would never change.

Then... armageddon. The constant tension of life at the Dowling's. The constant proximity to Aziraphale was a new kind of torture. Crowley felt himself yearning for him, watching him in his ridiculous gardener's outfit pretending to weed the flowerbeds before giving up and miracling them clear on the sly. Watching Warlock grow, pretending to be distant and aloof with the angel. Years of fucking torture.

When the world was almost ending, there was no time for dubiously motivated casual sex. Crowley's skin was itching again, and everything felt too intense, and there was no time to _do_ anything.

They survived. The Ritz felt like a dream. They drank, they toasted, and Aziraphale looked unfathomably proud of him. Back at the bookshop, Crowley automatically headed for the back room.

“Drink, angel?”

Aziraphale caught him by the arm.

“No, Crowley. I won't let you. Not this time.”

“But – we...”

“You run _away_. I – I can't. Crowley, will you come upstairs with me?”

Crowley couldn't speak, but he nodded. Let the angel tug him upstairs by the hand. He'd never been in Aziraphale's flat before.

They went into the bedroom. It was nice. Bit chintzy.

“Is this alright?” Crowley nodded in answer again. “Crowley, do – do you love me?”

“...Yeah, angel. I do.” Crowley had felt less scared facing Satan. But Aziraphale was giving him the most tender look.

“I'm so glad. I love you too. And – I won't let you run away this time. Stay with me, here.”

Crowley tried to say yes, but it came out as a sob. Aziraphale seemed to understand though. He wrapped his arms around the demon, then gently lifted him onto the bed. They lay side by side, Aziraphale stroking Crowley's soft red hair and wiping the tears from his cheeks.

“You're so very lovely, my dear. I've always wanted to tell you that. We're free now...”

Aziraphale wrapped his arms around Crowley and held him close until gradually the crying stopped.

“Angel...”

“Yes, dear?”

“Can I see you? Without all this, I mean.” He waved at Aziraphale's many layers of clothing.

“Of course.”

Aziraphale undressed with dignity, while Crowley wriggled out of his own too-tight clothing. Soon they were lying naked together, appreciating each other's bodies.

Crowley ran a hand over the angel's curves. He couldn't find the words to say how he felt right then. Instead he squeezed the swell of Aziraphale's arse, and groaned in appreciation.

Sex with Aziraphale was different. Better. Crowley didn't feel numb as Aziraphale pushed inside him, he felt _alive_. He gasped and shook, and treasured every sensation. And the angel's hand around his cock was nothing less than mindblowing. Crowley blacked out for a minute as Aziraphale brought him to a climax.

When he came to, the angel was kissing his lips and laughing.

“Are you alright, my love?”

“Um, yeah... Overwhelmed. S'too perfect.”

“Do you think you can get used to it? I'd hate to stop.”

“Yeah, angel. I think I can.”

**Author's Note:**

> Valvopus: drinks in the back room?


End file.
